Where 'Master of Death' is an Arguably Shitty Job Description
by Dantriestobeproductive
Summary: Or where Harry starts to be visited by Dementors with increasing frequency, and he can only wonder what the actual fuck is going on.
1. It's All a Slippery Slope, Really

I haven't scrolled through the HP section of FFNet for years, so if there happens to exist something similar to this, it will be a honest-to-god coincidence–this came out when I was thinking about what kind of powers a 'Master of Death' would have (soul-sucking Dementors came to mind), and it wouldn't surprise me if I weren't the first to come up with this. It sure sounds crack-ish enough to make anyone startle out a laugh.

Anyway! I fail at humour but I think this can count as 'crack', so enjoy the ridiculousness of the whole situation.

(PS: I tried to write this in British English, but...*squints* Not really sure how that went, so sorry if I it mixed up.)

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><p>The Dementors started to visit after Harry turned twenty.<p>

Well, technically, _a_ Dementor had been his first 'visitor' when Harry had been seventeen, just after the war, but that. Well. That hadn't ended well for anyone involved, and Harry had Patronus-ed its arse out of the country. They didn't talk about That Time.

(Actually, the first dozen or so of 'visits' started and therefore ended on that same line.)

After that and much, _much_ insistence of Hermione to let them be and see what happened before kicking them out–Ron had spluttered and been on Harry's side, but Hermione's explanation about that kind of behaviour being _unheard of_ and needing to be investigation had finally (grudgingly) convinced him...or at least made him curious enough–he tried to be more...civilized when the next Dementor appeared as sudden and creepily as they were wont to do.

When that happened, Harry had the momentary freakish image of a puppy going back to his owner with big round eyes and a stick in his mouth. He shook himself out of it quickly.

And so began one of the Most Uncomfortable Moments of Harry Potter's Life (and there were some quite remarkable moments to consider for the position, unsurprisingly), where Dementor and human had stared at each other for what seemed like hours.

And stared.

And stared.

And then Harry had awkwardly invited said hovering Dementor inside (and really, no sane person wanted to be faced with a _Dementor_ of all bloody things the moment they opened the door to go shopping), and furthermore invited him to a cuppa. To which the Dementor had just creepily breathed in, as they did, and stayed floating in front of the Boy-Who-Lived, apparently still not trying (thankfully) to suck his soul out. Even the usual 'sense-of-utter-despair' that they seemed to exude from every...err, pore of their body had seemed curiously dulled to the point of being an uneasy afterthought.

In the end, that day Harry Potter found himself drinking a cup of freezing cold tea while a Dementor hovered over the table, its own cup of tea frozen stuck to the wood, the atmosphere of awkwardness (hopefully) affecting the both of them.

Hermione looked close to have a fit when he told her. Ron choked on his food.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It actually was when Harry was over twenty three that he started to understand the reason of it.

The first hint was the Dementors' monthly presence (and oh, hadn't Harry's neighbours complained about how freezing the whole block was in the middle of summer. And hadn't some of them come close to attempt suicide some months in...), furthermore increased in frequency when Harry decided to move out to a little mansion in the countryside that was, technically, an old property of the Potter House (or the Black. The papers were a bit contradicting in that matter) on the sole reason of avoiding single-handedly turning the block of apartments he'd been living in in Muggle London into an official 'Haunted House', all with grisly suicides, spectral horrors and freezing rooms in the middle of summer. The rumours had began to spread.

-.-

The second hint came some time later, after a lengthy observation of the Dementors' (still freaky) behaviours outside of the whole...hovering and guarding and sucking your soul out. (The term 'the Kiss' was aptly named, in that nothing could be more nightmare-worthy than being given a kiss from a Dementor.)

On the one hand, Dementors didn't seem to eat or drink any kind of substance. Or sleep, for that matter. On the other hand, they seemed to like dark places a lot. Harry wasn't entirely sure how it happened, but when one day he went down to the mansion's cellar in the search of some artefacts and books he'd been told by some helpful paintings he'd find there, he wasn't surprised to find a little horde (Pack? Bank? ..._Flock_?) of Dementors seemingly spending their time enjoying (? ?) the freezing and dark atmosphere of the place.

(On hindsight, Harry should've have realized then that there was something absolutely wrong with him when he barely blinked at the sight. As it was, he'd been more preoccupied in seeing if those books on ancient wards had been there or not.)

-.-

The third hint, and maybe the most disturbing one, came the day a Dementor appeared before him (nothing wrong here, there were even some that liked to follow him around, as weird as it was) and then _opened his bloody cloak in front of him_.

Now, this didn't end in the world's most horrifyingly awkward act of flashing ever (THANK MERLIN), but what Harry saw.

Well.

There was something morbidly fascinating in learning that Dementors' chests were creepily similar to a human skeleton's one, down to the rib cage and ribs, but horribly mangled and disfigured in a way only a _very_ dark curse could do. And more fascinating was to learn that, on the side of said empty rib cage, where a heart would have rested if it were a normal human body, a light shined.

A familiar light.

As in, a 'soul that's been coaxed out of someone's body in an attempt of giving the Kiss' familiar light.

(Though obviously, this attempt had been much more successful than the one Harry remembered.)

Harry had paled, visions of Third Year and his disastrous first meetings with Dementors playing in his mind's eye.

The Dementor had come closer at Harry's silence but, once again, hadn't exuded that feeling of doom that came with someone slowly sucking the happiness (and life) out of you. Harry was too dazed to act, torn between flashbacks and utter bewilderment, so the Dementor had taken its liberties to get yet again closer, until Harry's face was almost shoved against the creepy not-really naked (Merlin he _hoped_) Dementor's rib cage.

Harry briefly considered asking the Dementor if he wanted him to scratch his tummy. Or...rib cage, he supposed.

He smothered that thought quickly.

In the end, Harry hadn't been sure what had made him do it, but that shining light had _begged_ to be touched, grasped, and the Dementor had (probably) offered it to him, so his hand had moved without any real input on his part until it was hesitantly hovering over the rib cage, and then lowering itself and entering though the emptiness that was between the end of the Dementor's rib cage and the start of...Harry wasn't even sure he wanted to know what _that_ was.

(In hindsight, having a hand inside a Dementor could easily be officially considered as the creepiest thing he'd ever done, and the most repulsing place he'd put his hand in (and here, too, he had too many competitors for the title...mostly thanks to his aunt's belief that Harry was to be the slave/handyman of the family and Care of Magical Animals). At the moment, it had seemed oddly _normal_.)

And then he'd cradled the light and taken it out from the dead cage with his bare hand, and he hadn't been able to do nothing but look at the soul, eyes wide in disbelief, even as the Dementor had let his robes fall back to cover him (thankfully) and floated back to the darkest corner in Harry's now-redecorated kitchen (notably warded to hell and beyond with anti-freezing charms).

And then the light had heated up in his hand, like a Lumos turning into an Incendio, and with a bright flash shot up to the ceiling, where it'd disappeared.

Again, Harry hadn't been concerned, or even creeped out.

(In hindsight, and hindsight was becoming his most mocking friend by then, the sense of calm and even _satisfaction_ had been creepy enough on its own, and the biggest red flag to be ever raised.)

The phenomena repeated itself from there on, and Harry took to it like he'd taken to all other weird occurrences in his life before–bewildered, but too curious to stop it.

It was a known saying that Harry would be killed by his own bloody curiosity one of these days anyway.

(Hermione would pale and gape, and later floo him in a dishevelled state and with a frustrated scowl that said better than any word how her research had gone. Ron, for his part, would first frown in bewilderment at Harry's fond comparison of the Dementors to lapdogs, and at learning about the 'soul incident' look at him, whisper a horrified 'Merlin's dirty knickers' while awkwardly patting his arm, and then carefully avoid any kind of prolonged physical contact with him for a solid week in his freak out. Which, considering they were Aurors and partners, was a pretty impressive effort.)

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

When Harry turns twenty-five, he finally understands. And proceeds to slap himself in the face.

_Master_, a Dementor says/hisses/moans. Harry isn't even sure what to call that sound. It fits well with the 'creature-straight-from-nightmares' that Dementors are supposed to represent, though. _Your Stone._

Harry looks at the offered object with consternation, and bites back the curses.

The Stone of Resurrection. The bloody Stone of Resurrection.

Of course there's also...

_Master, Master,_ another Dementor says, voice sounding somehow..._younger_, or more _childish_, of all things. _Your Stick._

_Stick and stones can hurt my bones_, Harry thinks with a suffering sigh, looking at the two objects that, by legend, managed to do much more than _hurt_ some bones.

He'd thought he'd been freed from all that when the war ended.

He'd thought this was all behind and buried ten meters under, next to Dumbledore and the most chaotic memories of his school years (and a great chunk of fifth year. Who was that 'Umbridge bitch', again...?), but apparently Harry had been too optimistic about it.

It explains _so much_, honestly. In the most screwed-up kind of way.

The Dementors wait expectantly (or, as expectantly as they can ever get) as they extend him the Stone of Resurrection and the Elder Wand.

And that's how the Master of Death learns what his title (and now job) entails.

(Honestly, _his life._)


	2. Extra: or Why Fate Hates Harry Potter

There's always a reason.

Summary: Where a 'Dementor' is what happens when (the Master of) Death tries to dump his work on some(_thing_)one else.

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><p>The Master of Death–or simply Death, as he'd come to call himself after so much time on the job (and seriously, the Hallows should come with some kind of warning label, something like 'WARNING: SHITTY JOB INCLUDED' or 'NOT RECOMMENDED TO NON-WORKAHOLIC PEOPLE WHO WANT ACTUAL VACATIONS')–considered himself a patient entity. Patience had been groomed into him from his human childhood, and he'd always prided himself in being naturally inclined towards patience, anyway. Said patience was also the trait in which he prided himself most, and which he considered had been essential to reunite the mythic Deathly Hallows.<p>

Now, he was beginning to think he was _too_ patient. And forgiving.

And maybe he should try to take over the world by now, because it was apparent that he was staying for a while, and what better leader to have than an immortal with powers over death and life?

Of course, said idle fantasy couldn't be fulfilled by a small but vital fact: Death was being worked to (heh) death.

He was _always_ busy; always! There wasn't a single minute were he didn't feel the Pull telling him where his next job laid, the soul awaiting his approval in the form of a touch to drift into the Afterlife. Death was relieved he'd stopped needing sleep somewhere along the last fifty years (or was it a century already?), because otherwise he'd have gone through a meltdown quickly followed by the worst Plague imaginable long ago, that would've wiped out humanity back to a more sensible number.

Like 50.

Maybe 25.

(Not that he didn't fantasize about that from time to time as well... but the fact remained the same.)

Too much work. Too many humans that just _wouldn't die en masse and avoid him Apparating from side to side of the world **constantly**._ A really infuriating little detail no one had taken the moment to advertise, nooo. 'Power', they'd said instead. 'Fame and fortune' they'd said.

Death felt cheated, that's how he felt. And he'd been too damn patient with this problem.

_No one_ cheated Death and got away with it. (No one did, after all, and Death was all too amused to go take those particular souls that tried anyway. Unfortunately, it didn't happen as often as one would think, or as often as Death could hope. His job was as dull as it got.)

So when his patience finally did snap, Death took it upon himself to fix this problem Elder Wand in hand and a, to outer eyes, pretty disturbing smile with just that touch of insanity in place. And since humans apparently were little more than annoyances he had to clean after _incessantly_ (at first, he'd reserved that opinion for the muggles, whom he'd had to reap as well for some twisted sense of amusement of the universe, but with the years he'd changed his mind and realized that they _all_ were worse than lice), he even used the inspiration that came from some of their beliefs and actual society.

Namely, he made himself some minions.

With cloaks.

And skeletal-like bodies.

And maybe even scythes.

(That last part was finally rejected at the last moment because finding so many scythes was a pain in the arse. And _thank Himself_ he did it, considering what followed.)

If asked later, Death was on a roll when he called upon his powers for the creation of his new small army of Collectors, cloaked shadows and twisted features lying under the covered surface. Furthermore, he'd might or might not have confessed to using some real human bones lying around for his little burst of creation (he _was _in a cemetery at the time, after all. What better place to call for the Powers of Death?).

Of course, the universe was a cruel mistress, and Death quickly learned the drawbacks of his genius plan (just before he could go on his_ very much deserved_ vacation to some uninhabited forgotten isle, at that!).

Namely, the fact that, for all that his Collectors had the intelligence and loyalty of a dog (he wasn't sure how that happened, but he suspected some non-human bones mixing in the mess by accident), they apparently were stupid enough to be unable to discriminate between _dead _and_ alive _people_._

And Merlin, Death groaned _loudly _the first time an eager Collector brought him the soul of someone who, by all accounts, still had twenty years of life going on before it was time to pay them a visit.

(And honestly, Death had no problem with the coldness his Collectors released, but _killing someone from frostbite in the middle of desert DURING THE DAY AND AT 114 ºF _was _not_ an acceptable job. Much less when the goddamned human was supposed to overthrow a regime or some such bullshit first (Fate hadn't been amused, and even less when she'd had to create a whole new species of magical creatures just to fix it. 'Geniuses' or not, Death hadn't been _able_ to resist himself and had quickly negotiated the creatures' boundaries of their magic abilities regarding death–he'd left with a satisfied smirk knowing that his work wouldn't be screwed with by the revival or early death of some poor idiot, Fate's murderous glare notwithstanding. At least he'd let her do her thing and revive the kid first, sheesh!)

By the time he'd told his pets several times to _only collect the souls of the dead bodies, and NO, KILLING THEM FIRST DIDN'T COUNT AS A 'GOOD JOB' YOU USELESS SACK OF BONES_, Death realized he'd created idiots, demented idiots the lot of them. So, after happily renaming them with the title of Dementeds (how that later found its way to human ears and evolved into 'Dementors', Death would never know), he decided they needed someone constantly pulling from their chain to avoid any unpredicted deaths ruining his day and agenda, and with his near infinite patience got to do just that.

(When humans invented some weird spell to shoo his little spawns away he'd shouted in glee, which hadn't translated very well to the humans, if the instantaneous disappearance of the light-animal and slump of the humans had been something to go with. He'd then proceed to groan when his idiot minions tried to suck the soul out of the unconscious flea-bags.)

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Many centuries later, he would look one day at a calendar and realize just how much time he'd been doing this bullshit. He would then finally snap and throw the wand as far away as he could, put the stone in some godforsaken cave in the seaside, and send the cloak in a one-way trip to fuck-knows-where (he surely didn't check), before erasing himself from existence in a burst of mad cackling and a last cry of 'FUCK YOU' to the world.

And so, Death would finally return to the Circle of Rebirth with a last sigh of relief.

(Many years later, a young Harry Potter would briefly wonder about his sudden urge to curse up a storm when Dumbledore told him about the Deathly Hallows' existence.)

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

(In another existence, Fate would be cackling herself to tears while grinning from ear to ear and gleefully shouting 'RETRIBUTION, FUCKER'.)


End file.
